


A Life Without Spirit

by bisexualamy



Series: Howard Stark: Conflicted Jew [3]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bisexual Male Character, Captain America: The First Avenger, Gen, Jewish Character, Jewish Howard Stark, Non-Linear Narrative, Period-Typical Antisemitism, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7083160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualamy/pseuds/bisexualamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Howard Stark had to hide his Judaism to get ahead, and one time it didn't matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life Without Spirit

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The dreams in which I'm dying](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6910510) by [Selena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selena/pseuds/Selena). 



> Of course I'm back with more Jewish Howard Stark, but you guys knew that already. Standard warning for antisemitism, both internalized and external, as well as a minor warning for alcohol. This is also a non-linear fic, and takes place within the same universe as all my other Howard Stark: Conflicted Jew fics. The title comes from a line that Howard's mother says in my big backstory fic.

It’s 1934 and Howard has just gotten the biggest promotion of his life.  He’s now head supervisor in charge of all of Thomas, Edwards, and Company’s military contracts, at  _ seventeen. _  So, when his bosses offer to take him out for a beer to celebrate, who is he to say no?  Robert and James pick a bar close to Howard’s apartment, and all three of them order drinks.  The conversation goes from the standard congratulations, to swapping funny stories, to prods about Howard’s love life (“with you guys working me to the bone, how could I have one?”).  Finally, James interjects with the one topic no one wants to hear about.

“Robert, I know now is hardly the time,” he says, “but I need to ask you about one of the materials orders before I forget.”

“James, please,” Robert replies.  “Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“With the rate I’m going I’m not coming into work tomorrow,” James jokes.  The comment gets the same sort of laugh a bad pun would.  “Seriously, I just need you to look over the order forms.  Some of the prices look off now that we’ve switched raw materials suppliers, and I just want to make sure we’re not getting Jewed.”

Howard feels his heart skip a beat at James’ last comment.  He’s never heard someone use the word Jew as a verb before, but it hardly sounds good.  Still, he has a morbid curiosity.

“Jewed?” he ventures.

“Cheated, screwed,” Robert explains, “fucked in the ass.”  It clear that the alcohol is loosening up his tongue, and James laughs at his crudeness and Howard’s accompanying shocked expression.

“Y’know,” James says, “because the Jews are cheap when it comes to everything except lining their own pockets.”

“I don’t think a Jew would do anything if they couldn’t make a buck,” Robert says, joining in laughing.

Howard feels like there’s bile in his throat.  He swallows his discomfort and forces himself to laugh along with his bosses.

“Probably charge their kids if they breathe too much air,” Howard says, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it.  Robert and James are too drunk to notice.

Robert claps Howard on the back, the two of them redoubling their laughter after Howard’s joke.

“Atta boy!” he says.  “Look at that quick wit.  Now that’s why we hired you.”

***

It’s 1982 and the neighbors have just invited the Starks to their Christmas party.  Howard didn’t know that he was the type to get invited to holiday parties, or that he had the kinds of neighbors who assumed he was, but evidently both were the case.  He wants to back out, to have Maria help him make some kind of excuse about how they were too busy with their own holiday preparations to make an appearance, but she jokes that her husband needs to loosen his tie every once in awhile, and she thinks letting Tony play with the neighborhood kids would be good for him regardless.

Tony is running around the house with a small string of Christmas lights in his hand, half singing half speaking “it’s Christmas, it’s Christmas.”  He nearly bumps into Jarvis as he goes, narrowly avoiding about half of the furniture as well.  Finally, when he trips and nearly falls in front of his father, Howard makes a grab at the Christmas lights and says, “stop that.  You’re going to hurt yourself, and you’re much too old to be acting like this.”

Tony pulls the Christmas lights out of his father’s reach and says, “how can you be this grumpy when it’s  _ Christmas?   _ Do you even like Christmas?”

Howard makes a go to answer, not realizing it’s not the best idea to defend himself to his twelve-year-old son, when Maria walks in.

“Of course your father likes Christmas,” she says.  “We all do.”

“But he’s being grumpy,” Tony says with a pout.  “He’s being a grinch.”

“You keep that up and your face will stick like that,” Howard snaps.  “Now, go do something with those lights besides being a hazard in the hallways.”

Tony continues to pout as a small show of defiance, but doesn’t say anything else as he walks away.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on him,” Maria says.  “He’s just excited.  You remember what Christmas was like when you were little, and how excited it made you feel.”

Howard stops, thinking back to the Christmases of his childhood.  How his mother would get a measly overtime compensation for working at the factory, and how it was too cold for his father to stand outside selling fruit but he’d do it anyway.  Howard would sit at home reading or drawing or inventing, waiting late into the night for them to get back.  He thinks of Joey Manfredi and the gifts he would get, and the Christmas trees that would pop up all around New York City, and the stories about Santa Claus that he never quite believed, but still felt jealous and angry that Santa wouldn’t give him presents just because he was Jewish.  And, he remembers the Chanukahs his parents would throw together, insisting on coming home from work early all eight nights to light the candles on the Menorah, and the  _ gelt _ they’d give him, mostly chocolate, but one of the eight nights it would be real coins that he could spend on whatever he wanted.  He thinks of the Purim celebrations that would happen later in the year, with the  _ hamantaschen  _ filled with chocolate and fruit compote, and the Purim baskets the neighbors would all exchange, and all the children dressed up in their costumes, and how he much preferred that holiday to Chanukah anyway, because it was spring and the world felt more alive.

They all knew Chanukah wasn’t as important as the other holidays, but they’d try to make it special anyway to compensate for the fact that the world was celebrating Christmas.

“You’re right,” Howard says with a sigh.  “I guess I haven’t gotten into the Christmas spirit yet.”  He feigns a smile and says, “you were always so much better at this Christmas thing than me.”

***

It’s 1939 and Stark Industries is set to have its grand opening any day now, if Howard could only stop being so choosy about hiring his administrators. The excuse that these guys would be overseeing all his engineering projects was apparently not good enough for top donors itching to see some return on their generous investments.  The stacks of resumés cover a good portion of the table, one section for possibles, one section for rejects, and one section for no-way-in-hells.  Howard begins to shuffle through the five he sees potential in, running his eyes down their laundry lists of accomplishments, when he finally settles on one.

“Here, what about this guy?” he asks, setting down the other four and bringing the winning resumé closer to his face.  “Samuel Rothman.”

One of the investors scoffs.

“What?” Howard asks.

“Don’t you want to hire someone a bit more… appropriate, Mr. Stark?” the man asks.

“What do you mean?” Howard asks.  “You haven’t even seen the guy’s resumé!  Lots of engineering experience, a ton of interesting personal projects, even some past administrative roles.  He graduated top of his class at Columbia-”

“Of course he did,” a second man says with a snicker.

_ “What?” _ Howard asks insistently.

“Oh, for Chrissakes, Mr. Stark,” the first man says.  “Did you hear that name?  He’s a  _ Jew. _  Of course he went to Columbia; the place is infested with them.”

“You can’t trust a Jew as far as you can throw ‘em,” the second man says.  “You let that guy into your company, you can say goodbye to all the generous donations you’ve been getting.”

“You think they’ll all pull out?” Howard asks, his throat going dry.  It was a good thing these investors had no idea where  _ he _ came from.

“Well, more than that,” the first man says, “this Jew will probably take your money and run before anyone can ask for a return on their checks.  You know how those people are.”

The two investors share a knowing look before turning back to Howard, who’s standing momentarily stunned.  In a second, he recovers.

“Yes, of course I do,” Howard said, clearing his throat.  “No Samuel Rothman, then.”

He puts the resumé down, feeling like he’s been punched in the gut.  Why didn’t this man have the good sense to change his name?  Maybe if he had tried harder to seem less Jewish, he wouldn’t have been stuck at Columbia.

“How about this guy,” Howard asks, picking up another resumé.  “Excellent qualifications.  Guy’s name is Alexander Harris-”

“Much better, Mr. Stark,” the first man says.  “Sounds more American, more hardworking-”

“Definitely a good prospect,” the second man confirms.

Howard almost says that the two of them haven’t even heard about the man’s work history, or education, when he thinks better of it.  After all,  _ he’s _ the boss, dammit, and if he says Alexander Harris has excellent qualifications, then he damn well does.

“Good,” Howard says.  “He’s hired.”

***

It’s 1956 and Howard realizes that he can’t keep dragging his feet with Maria.  He  _ loves _ her, dammit, a love he’s never felt with anyone else in his life.  He’s also nearly forty, and he wants to be able to stand at the altar looking like this is his first marriage.  When he pops the question, they’re eating dinner at his home in New York, because if she decides to turn him down, he’s not going to set himself up to be rejected in public.

“Marry me,” he says.  It seems out of the blue to her, but he’s been mentally preparing for those two words the whole evening.

“What?” she asked, not quite believing it.

“Marry me,” he says again, with more confidence this time, and quickly getting on one knee in front of her.  He takes a small jewelry box out of his jacket’s inside pocket and opens it, revealing an engagement ring.  “I love you, Maria, and I want you to be my wife.”

She sits there, shocked for a moment, to the point where Howard fears that taking the precaution to make this private was with good reason, when she grabs him and kisses him.

“Of course I’ll marry you,” she says, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a tight hug.

Howard was never an event planner, he had people for that, but Maria insisted on having a hand in all of the arrangements anyway.  One day, a few months later, they’re sitting at the dining room table together, going over the guestlist.

“Are you sure there’s no family you’d like to see at the wedding?” Maria asks.

“Family, what family?” Howard asks.  “Only child, dead parents, who’s left?”

Coming from someone else this sentence may have sounded bitter, but with Howard it was matter-of-fact.

“No cousins?” Maria asked.

“I came from an immigrant family,” Howard says.  “They’re probably all in Europe.”

“Right, and there’s no sense in making them fly all the way from Germany for a wedding,” Maria says.

Howard swallows his discomfort when he hears Maria cite his shoddy cover story from when he was a teen.  He hadn’t actually told anyone he was German for at least a decade, but everyone believes it anyway.  He opens his mouth to correct her, figuring it was high time she knew the truth, when she accidentally cuts him off.

“Now we just need to pick a church,” she says.

“A- a church?” Howard asks.

“To have the service,” Maria supplies.  “Don’t tell me you weren’t planning on getting married in a church.”

“Well, I just thought-”

“Howard, I know you’d rather have a party, but my parents are Catholics,” she says.  “They’d each have separate heart attacks if we tried to get married without a priest.”

In a moment he hears his mother’s voice in his head, lamenting those good Jewish boys that strayed from the faith to marry gentile women.

_ “But that’s not you, right, bubbelah?  You’ll marry a nice Jewish girl and give me beautiful Jewish grandchildren.” _

Well, she might be rolling in her grave, but at least he never planned on having kids.

“You can pick the church, Maria,” Howard says.  “I don’t remember the last time I went to one.  I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Years later, when her parents insist that they baptize Tony, Howard doesn’t even blink.

***

It’s 1927 and young Howard Stark and Joey Manfredi are playing tag in the street.  The game has devolved into chasing each other down back alleys and around street vendors, trying their hardest to get as close to knocking something (or someone) over without actually doing it.  Finally, Howard catches up to his friend.

“Tag!” he says, practically pushing the other ten-year-old over.  “You’re it.”

“I don’t wanna play anymore,” Joey says, making a go at shoving Howard away.

“You just don’t wanna play because you’re it,” Howard teases.  Then, in a singsonging voice taunts, “you’re a sore loser.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am  _ not.” _

“Are  _ too.” _

“I just don’t wanna play because it’s getting close to dark,” Joey says, “and Nona is makin’ my favorite spaghetti and meatballs, with her special tomato sauce.  I’ll get a smack if I’m late.”

Howard pauses, seeing no flaw in this argument, and says, “you’re so lucky you have a grandma.  I dunno what my grandma even looks like.”

“Well, you can’t have mine,” Joey says, sticking in tongue out.

“I didn’t want your dumb grandma anyway,” Howard says.

“What did you say about Nona?” Joey says, looking like he’s ready to punch Howard for another ill word against his grandmother.

“Nothin’,” Howard says back.  “Just go eat your spaghetti and leave me alone.”

Joey notices Howard’s sulky expression and sighs.

“You wanna see if you can come over for dinner?” he asks.  “You can’t have Nona, but I can stand sharing her for one night.”

Howard’s face lights up.  

“I’ll run home and tell my parents right now!” he says.  He’s just about to leave when Joey grabs his arm.

“One more thing, Howard,” Joey says.  “Don’t speak any of that Yiddish while you’re in the house.  Actually, don’t do any of that Jew stuff.”

Howard stops and looks at his friend, confusion and hurt written all over his face.

“It’s not that  _ I _ have a problem with it,” Joey amends quickly.  “It’s that she does.  She sees you speaking Yiddish, she’ll try and get the Devil outta you, and I don’t think kids with the Devil in ‘em get spaghetti.”

“Okay,” Howard says, trying to sound like this still doesn’t sting, but it does.  Yiddish wasn’t the Devil’s language, it was the language of his mother’s bedtime stories, and his father’s jokes, and the neighbor’s prayers.  But, he wanted spaghetti and meatballs.  It wouldn’t matter, he reasoned.  After all, it would just be this once.

***

It’s 1944 and Captain America and his Howling Commandos are continuing their campaign as a massive thorn in HYDRA’s side.  Aided by the unwavering command of Steve Rogers, the Commandos’ intense loyalty, and the technical advances of Stark Industries, it finally seems as if the war has a chance of ending in victory.  One day, after a particularly intense battle, Steve is rushed into camp, leaning on two of the Commandos and looking as if he can barely walk.

“Someone get this guy a doctor!” Sergeant Barnes shouts.  When Steve tries to protest, Bucky says, “I swear, Steve, you say one word about being okay, and I’ll smack you hard enough to make sure that’s a lie.”

Steve grumbles something inaudible, but stops his objections.  As they rush to the medical tent, Howard watches a good distance away.  He knows that Steve will survive the injuries, after all, he’s not only Captain America, but Howard’s greatest achievement.  Besides, the notes Dr. Erskine left behind confirm the serum’s ability to make quick work of injuries.  Once the Commandos disappear into the tent, Howard goes back to his workshop to see if he can solve his latest problem of giving these boys enough high-powered toys to keep them just shy of breaking their necks every mission.

Hours later, he’s still working.  Sleep has never been one of his strong suits, and he often goes days without it, simply because he’s too engrossed in his work.  The sun has long gone down when an army nurse comes in, looking nervous.

“Mr. Stark?” she asks hesitantly.  Howard looks up.

“How can I help you?” he says with a coy smile.

“Captain Rogers requested to see you, sir,” the nurse says.  “He’s still in the medical tent.  He wanted to leave to see you, but we wouldn’t let him, so he said we had to bring you to him.”

Confused, but feeling honored nonetheless, Howard stops what he’s doing and follows the nurse to the medical tent, where Steve Rogers is lying in a bed sectioned off by a curtain, all bandaged up.  Another nurse is sitting with him, trying to engage in idle conversation with him, and Howard realizes she’s more of a means of keeping him from leaving, as opposed to serving any sort of medical purpose.  When Steve sees Howard, he tries to dismiss her, but it’s only until the other nurse says, “let’s give them some privacy,” that the two women leave.

“Captain,” Howard says, but he forgoes the salute because he knows it makes Steve uncomfortable.

“Howard,” Steve says, giving Howard a weak smile.  “Please, sit.  Make me feel like I’m lying in this bed by choice.”

Howard chuckles and pulls up a chair next to Steve’s bedside.

“I wanted to thank you personally,” Steve says.  “One of your modified guns saved our asses back there.  Without you, I don’t think we’d all be alive.”

Howard has to stop himself from beaming.  He’d be lying if he didn’t say he had conflicted feelings about moving Stark Industries in the direction of weapons manufacturing, regardless of how patriotic it looked, but Steve’s compliment seemed to make the whole thing worth it.

“Just doin’ my job, Cap,” Howard says.  “Need some way to occupy my time while you and your boys run off to save the world from Nazis.”

Steve chuckles, though it looks like it hurts his chest.

“We’re about the same age, aren’t we?” he asks.

Howard thinks about it for a moment before nodding.  It’s odd to look at the man in front of him and think that they were so close in years, but so different in life experiences.

“So you’ve never fought in a war?”

“Never,” Howard confirms.  “I fight my battles with my brain.  Can’t really throw a punch.”

They both share a laugh at that.

“What you do for us is just as good,” Steve says.  “Wars don’t have to be won with brute force.”  He sighs, reflecting on something.  “I used to scare my mom with how many fights I got into as a kid.  I tried to keep them a secret from her, but it’s hard to hide a black eye or a broken nose.  I never could let the other guy get away with whatever he’d done or said.  She’d tell me I was too righteous, a crusader born in the wrong time.  She was a Catholic, you know.  Irish Catholic.  She left me the cross necklace she used to wear in her will.  I wanted to wear it on the day of the procedure, but Dr. Erskine told me it would interfere with the Vita Rays.  I packed it with me, though.  Brought it to camp.  I had one of the nurses get it for me.”

He gestures to his bedside table, and on it sits a small, silver cross necklace.  Howard stares at it, feeling his heart rate pick up just a bit.  There was something about crosses and churches that always made him nervous.  When he was little it was because Joey Manfredi told him that Jews weren’t allowed near those sorts of places, that crosses could burn his skin, but now it was more because he felt like going to a church would cause his mother’s soul unnecessary unrest, and he’d already hurt her enough.

“You can pick it up, if you want,” Steve says.  It’s then that Howard realizes he’s drifted off into thought while still staring at the necklace.  “I always assumed you weren’t a religious man but hey, who am I to judge?”

“I’m not,” Howard says quickly, feeling a pang in his chest.  So much for not causing his mother’s soul unnecessary unrest.  “What I mean is,” he amended, not sure why he’s not letting the issue drop, “I wasn’t raised Catholic.”

“My mother tried with me,” Steve says, “but she didn’t really succeed.  After seeing the horrors of war, I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

It was funny to Howard that the war had the exact opposite effect on him.  When Steve stepped out of the Vita Ray pod, culminating Project Rebirth, Howard finally believed in miracles.

“It’s okay if you’re a Protestant, though,” Steve continues, smiling.  “I don’t judge.”

Howard feels himself looking around to see if anyone’s just beyond the curtain, eavesdropping.  Seeing no shadows, and hearing nothing but the usual ruckus of a military camp outside, he takes a chance.

“I’m not a Protestant,” he says.  “I’m a Jew.”

Steve says nothing, staring up at him.  Instantly, Howard regrets his decision, practically tripping over his words to try and make excuses.

“I mean, I was raised Jewish.  My parents were Jews.  Me, well, I don’t-”

“Hey, stop,” Steve says warmly.  “I don’t care what you are, Howard.  That’s the beauty of this country.  We, me and the Commandos, we’re fighting to keep the rights of all people safe.  That includes Jews.”

Howard doesn’t have the heart to tell him that the America in his head is nothing more than a fantasy, that the only way he’s gotten this far is by lying through his teeth about who he is.

“Soon, you won’t need to lie about who you are,” Steve says.  “The world’s on a path to change, if I have anything to say about it.”

And for a moment, Howard almost believes him.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone's interested in learning more about Purim, which happens to be my favorite holiday, [this](http://www.jewfaq.org/holiday9.htm) is a good place to start.


End file.
